


Sole Searching

by DHW



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: House Elves, Humor, Multi, Plot Twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: The House Elves of Hogwarts have been going missing. Compelled by a life debt, Severus finds himself on the case of the disappearing domestics. However, things are not quite as they appear and soon Severus finds himself embroiled in something rather bigger than he ever anticipated.Written for Shiv5468 for the 2016 SSHG Giftfest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiv5468](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiv5468/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> **Prompt:** 1\. Severus was saved by the Hogwarts house elves and owed them a life debt, and now they want to collect. He needs Hermione's help, obviously to deal with whatever issue they've raised - they don't like the new headmaster, they don't want holidays and pay, they think there's something horrible at the bottom of the garden. Up to you. 
> 
> **Author’s Note:** Thank you to the lovely krissy_cits for being kind enough to beta this fic for me, and to the mods for ensuring the plot made at least some small semblance of sense. You rock! The game Cripple Mister Onion, and its associated Caroc deck, is from the wonderful world of Terry Pratchett (which, if you haven’t explored, then you are truly missing out!).

*

_  
Extract from ‘Off To Market’ by Tobias A. Pig. (Diagon English Press. 2014. Page 147.):  
_

_Nothing completes a lazy Sunday afternoon like a steaming cup of fine coffee and a plate of petit fours. Freshly ground beans (never, ever instant) are an absolute necessity, and if one must have milk, then make sure it is organic. Personally, I find these jewel-sized chocolate morsels are the perfect complement to a fine South American bean blend and are deceptively more-ish. Therefore, I hasten caution before making!_

_ FOR THE TRUFFLES _

_200g high quality dark chocolate (70% cocoa solids at an absolute minimum)_

_40g butter (unsalted, obviously)_

_200ml double cream_

_25g caster sugar (I like mine infused with vanilla, but the choice is yours)_

_ FOR THE FLAVOURINGS _

_2 tbsp of your choice of elf-made brandy, firewhiskey, coconut rum, coffee liquor, or even the zest and juice of an orange._

_The possibilities are, quite literally, endless._

_ FOR THE COATING _

_50g cocoa powder_

_1 tbsp icing sugar_

_MAKES 30_

_1\. Break the chocolate into small pieces and place in a mixing bowl with the butter._

_2\. Pour the sugar and the cream into a saucepan and gently heat (either by wand or Muggle-based means) until the mix just begins to boil._

_3\. Gently pour the sugar and cream mix onto the chopped chocolate and butter, stirring gently until thoroughly combined. The mix should be smooth and shiny._

_4\. Add the flavouring of your choice and slowly cool the mix until it becomes firm. I find that a quick Frigus charm does the trick, but one may place the mix in a fridge if one absolutely must._

_5\. Once cool, coat your hands with a little cocoa powder and roll a teaspoon-sized amount of the mixture into a small ball._

_6\. Coat the truffles immediately after shaping. Place the cocoa powder and icing sugar in a bowl and gently roll the balls in the powder until fully coated. Feel free to experiment with the addition of chopped nuts to the coating here, if you like (hazelnuts are a firm favourite of the author’s)._

_7\. Finally, allow the truffles to further cool and set firmly before serving._

_And voilà!_

_Tasty truffles to rival those of any House Elf. Simply perfect for that lazy afternoon coffee, either with friends or alone._

*

The Elf was small. The Elf was cold. The Elf was very, very scared. And the Elf was lost.

 

Well, perhaps the term lost was a little bit of an oversimplification. The Elf, whose name was Hinkey, wasn’t exactly lost, as such. Lost implied a complete absence of knowledge as to her position in the world, which wasn’t strictly true. To begin with, she knew exactly where she wasn’t (Hogwarts). She also knew exactly where she should have been (again, Hogwarts). And, though her current whereabouts were somewhat of a mystery to the tiny Elf, she did know perhaps the most important thing of all: she was not supposed to be Here.

 

Wherever Here actually was.

 

Disorientated and more than a little confused, Hinkey lay upon the floor watching a spider make its third attempt at scaling the window. Twice, the tiny creature had ventured up the glass, its long legs carrying it swiftly up the pane. Half way up it had hit a snag. Unable to secure itself, it had slid down, landing in a tangle of hairy legs and silk upon the sill.

 

It looked as trapped as Hinkey felt.

 

Blinking, Hinkey pushed herself up to a standing position, the tattered pillowcase that made up her dress brushing gently against her legs. Her left hand fell heavily against her side. She looked down. A small gold band encircled her wrist, the shiny metal flush against her skin. Frowning, she snapped her fingers, drawing upon her magic to Apparate back home.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Hinkey repeated the gesture. Again, nothing happened. She was stuck. Fear beginning to bubble up from her chest, she cast a wary glance around the room, taking in her surroundings.

 

Here, it turned out, was a rather sterile-looking waiting room. A cold white light shone down upon the room from flickering fluorescent bulbs. Small chairs covered in scratchy blue fabric lined the off-white walls. And, at the end of the room, behind a large, cheap desk sat a fierce-looking witch in a set of dark green robes. 

 

“Name?” said the woman coldly.

 

“I is being Hinkey, M’am,” the Elf squeaked, twisting her hands into the tatty cotton of her pillowcase.

 

“H-i-n-k-e-y,” the woman repeated slowly, the tip of her quill loudly scratching against the parchment in her ledger.

 

“Excusing me, M’am, but I is not sure where exactly I is being,” said the Elf. “I is needing to be at Hogwarts, else I will be missed.”

 

The witch scowled, her painted lips pursed. “No-one is going to miss you, Hinkey.”

 

The Elf shook her head in confusion. “But M’am…”

 

“Quiet.” The woman held up a hand to silence her, silver nails glinting in the light. “This is your home now, Hinkey. Not Hogwarts. And I have a new job for you.”

 

The Elf stared at the woman with wide, unblinking eyes.

 

“Tell me, Hinkey,” said the woman coldly, “can you sew?”

*

Elsewhere, deep in the heart of London, in an office that wasn’t really there, a man sat at a desk. A man in a smart grey suit, horned-rimmed glasses and a pair of exceptionally ordinary-looking shoes.

 

And he was waiting.

*

The pair were sitting in Lucius’ study playing Cripple Mr. Onion. They were already half way through the wine, the stakes were roughly one month of his pittance of a salary, and Severus Snape was being beaten like a naughty schoolboy.

 

“Care to fold, Severus?” said Lucius, smirking over the top of his Caroc deck.

 

Severus looked at his cards with barely concealed dismay. Lady Luck had once again given him a swift kick in the ‘nads. The five cards he held wouldn’t possibly give him more than a broken royal, no matter what ended up on the table during the next deal. And Lucius, he knew, was sitting on something rather larger than that; Lucius never made bets he couldn’t win, and certainly not when there was money for the taking.

 

After all, being born into wealth was easy. But keeping it? That took skill.

 

“I’ve no idea why we can’t play something more civilised, like chess,” said Severus with a sniff, tossing his cards haphazardly onto the velvet-covered table, conceding the loss. 

 

“Why on earth would I agree to play something you’re better at?” Lucius said as he swept the small sack of Galleons up off the table with a smile. He shook it gently, forcing the coins within to jangle merrily. “I hardly have money to burn, these days, and the Manor needs a new roof. Every Sickle counts.”

 

Severus snorted, gesturing at the half empty bottle of Chateau Igerne 2008 – a rather fruity little Pauillac that he would bet his wand couldn’t be found in the bargain section at Odd-Bins. “I hardly think you’re in any position to cry poverty, Lucius.”

 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

 

“Desperate being the operative word,” Severus grumbled under his breath. He took a sip of wine and continued more loudly, “You can’t be that hard up for cash, Lucius. I thought your new book was doing rather well? Top of the Prophet best-seller list, the last I heard.”

 

The book in question, Off To Market by Tobias A. Pig, had been Lucius’ first foray into the murky world of culinary publishing. It was his newest in a long line of ‘stay rich quick’ schemes, and by far the most successful. Lucius, it turned out, was not only an excellent, if pretentious, writer, but also truly superb chef. As Mr. T. A. Pig, he’d taken the Wizarding world by storm.

 

Tobias A. Pig. Severus had no idea why Lucius had chosen that particular pseudonym. He probably though it was funny, which just went to show that money couldn’t buy taste.

 

Sad really.

 

Lucius grimaced, draining the last of the red from his glass. “Yes, well, it seems that literary and financial success are not quite as well correlated as I previously thought.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Well quite.” Lucius made to refill his glass, topping Severus’ up in the process with a casual flick of his wand. “But I can’t imagine you came here simply to gamble away your money.” Lucius paused, a lazy smile curling the edges of his lips. “Well, I can imagine that, and a pleasant thought it is too, but it’s hardly realistic. Out with it then. What do you want?”

 

“Who’s to say I want anything?” said Severus with an affronted sniff.

 

“You only play cards with me when you want a favour.” Lucius took a sip of wine, smirking at him over the rim of his glass. “And you only deign to lose when you want a favour of an especially large and arduous variety.”

 

Severus scowled at his friend. He was correct.

 

Git.

 

“I do no such thing,” replied Severus testily, folding his arms. Lucius quirked an eyebrow, his smirk widening. Severus frowned. “Oh fine, yes, I want a favour.”

 

“And what is it that can I do for you?” Lucius said with a triumphant crow.

 

“Not so much you as your daughter-in-law.”

 

“Astoria?”

 

Severus nodded. “I need to take a look at her books.” 

 

“Books?”

 

“Yes, books,” continued Severus, readjusting the cuffs of his robes. “Or, more accurately, ledgers. I need to see if she’s received any unregistered House Elves recently.”

 

“House Elves?”

 

“Must you repeat everything I say? Merlin, it’s like talking to a bloody parrot.”

 

Lucius rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you ought to start at the beginning.”

 

Severus sighed deeply, leaning back in the plush velvet chair. He pushed a hand through his greying hair, smoothing it back from his face as he began the whole mysterious tale.

 

“It appears that Elves have been going missing from Hogwarts,” he said with a grimace. “It started about three months ago. Only one or two at first, not enough to cause any great concern, but over twenty have gone in the past fortnight. I’ve been following the Elves for a while now, setting up new wards and traps to try and catch the bastard responsible, but they’re still disappearing without so much as a puff of smoke. Minerva’s practically having kittens over the whole thing.”

 

“And this is your problem because?”

 

Severus shot him an exasperated look, his hand rising subconsciously to the mess of scar tissue at his throat. “Who do you think rescued me from the shack?”

 

A spark of recognition lit Lucius’ features. “So the House Elves are cashing in their life debt?”

 

“Correct, if a little slow on the uptake.” Severus took a long draught from his wine glass. “I owe them. Which, in a roundabout sort of way, is why I want to talk to Astoria. Or, more specifically, whoever currently runs the Greengrass family business.”

 

Greengrass Domestic Solutions was the child-friendly answer to the question, ‘where do House Elves come from’, the more technical answer being of interest only to biologists and those of a particularly stout constitution. For the past six centuries, the Greengrass family had managed the acquisition and redistribution of House Elves throughout Wizarding Britain. A task which had now fallen to the eldest of the Greengrass children, Astoria. If anyone would know what had happened to the Hogwarts Elves, it would be her. And, no doubt, she’d have the paperwork to prove it.

 

“Ah, you want to know if she’s had anyone try to sell her the Elves,” said Lucius. “Or perhaps place an order for rather more Elves than usual.”

 

“Not just a pretty face, are you?”

 

“Well, one of us has to be.”

 

“Hilarious.” Severus scowled at his friend, somewhat miffed. He may have been no oil painting, and certainly no Malfoy, but he liked to think he scrubbed up well enough, given the opportunity. “Well?”

 

“I’ll owl her.” Lucius paused, a dangerous glint entering his grey eyes. “But I want you to do something for me first.”

 

Severus sighed. “Taking my money wasn’t enough?”

 

“You’re effectively asking me to accuse my daughter-in-law, who is not my greatest fan by the way, of being complicit in some illegal Elf dealing. A few measly Galleons is hardly going to cut it, Severus.”

 

“Measly Galleons, indeed! That’s one month of my salary.”

 

“Then you are not paid nearly enough,” said Lucius smartly. His face fell as he took in Severus’ expression. “Oh don’t look at me like that. Anyone would think I was about to ask for your firstborn. Besides, I think you’re going to rather like this.”

 

Somehow, history told Severus otherwise.

 

“Oh?” he said, swirling the contents of his wine glass, affecting an air of disinterest.

 

“I want you to go and pay a visit to Ms. Granger.”

 

Severus’ eyes narrowed. “Why, pray tell, would you want me to do that?”

 

“Because you are vastly better acquainted with the woman than I,” said Lucius with what Severus thought might just be the slightest tinge of jealousy. It was either that or wind. “Therefore,” he continued, “I imagine she would be far more receptive to any suggestions made by you than, say, someone like myself, the big bad Ex-Death Eater that I am.” 

 

“A history we both share,” Severus said with a tilt of his head. “Besides, after all that business in the Prophet, I hardly think Hermione is in much of a mood to see anyone. Myself included.”

 

Lucius quirked an immaculately sculpted eyebrow. “Hermione, is it now? Interesting.”

 

Severus felt a cold sense of dread begin to solidify in his gut at his misstep.

 

“No, not interesting,” he protested, fully aware that he was accomplishing little more than digging a deeper hole. “I’ve known the woman for over a decade, Lucius. I used to work with her, for god’s sake. Why wouldn’t we be on first name terms?”

 

“So you’re telling me you weren’t caught getting, shall we say, better acquainted out in the gardens at last year’s Triwizard Tournament?” needled Lucius with a supercilious smirk.

 

Despite his best efforts, Severus could feel a tell tale blush begin to rise on his cheeks.

 

“How would you know?” he said acidly. “As far as I recall, you were in France.”

 

“I have my sources.”

 

“I take it you mean Draco?”

 

“And is he wrong?”

 

He was, but Severus was not about to admit it. He scowled. “Whether Draco is right or wrong is irrelevant.”

 

“So that would be a no, then? Or is it just wishful thinking?” Lucius shrugged. “Either way, I want you to go and talk to her for me.”

 

“Why?”

 

Lucius sat back in his chair, folding his arms over the ever so slight paunch middle age had gifted his stomach. “I want a programme on Network IV. Off to Market, though a critical success, was hardly the financial triumph I had anticipated. I feel that an evening slot on Britain’s premier Wizarding spoken word broadcasting service would do wonders for my profile, and therefore, bank account.” Lucius smiled broadly at Severus. “And since you are on first name terms with the new Controller of Network IV, then you are in just the right position to make that happen.”

 

“It may not have occurred to you, Lucius, or should that be Tobias? But unlike the rather faceless world of publishing, one can hardly expect to waltz into the BWBC offices and retain one’s anonymity.” Severus gave Lucius a hard look. “You are rather recognisable.”

 

“Well obviously I will wear a disguise.”

 

“I don’t see why the pseudonym was necessary in the first place,” Severus grumbled.

 

“Don’t be purposefully obtuse. You know full well no-one would buy the book with my own name on the cover.” Lucius picked a piece of lint from the lapel of his robes. “We Malfoys may have been begrudgingly forgiven, but we have very much not been forgotten. Besides, I have a reputation to uphold. I dread to think what the rest of the pureblood set would think if they found out I even knew where the kitchen was, let alone how to use it.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you how much of a snob you are?”

 

“You. Frequently.” Lucius’ grey eyes narrowed. “So, in summary, you get me a prime slot on Network IV and I provide you with access to the dealings of Greengrass Domestic Solutions. Do we have a deal?”

 

Lucius extended a perfectly manicured hand. Severus took it, a sinking feeling settling low in his stomach.

 

“Yes. I suppose we do.”

 

“Excellent,” said Lucius, a large and mildly unnerving smile creasing his features. “Now, what would you say to a spot of afternoon tea before you head off to see the delightful Ms. Granger? I’ve been working on a rather tasty little raspberry tartlet recipe for my next book and could do with an outside opinion.”

*

It was 4pm and Hermione Granger had a headache.

 

That, in itself, was not an unusual occurrence. It was a rare day in which mid-afternoon would roll round without one. In fact, so rare was it, that Hermione kept a small crate of Healer Ramekin’s Head-Eaze Solution (patent pending) in the top draw of her desk ready for the afternoon tea break. She was nothing if not prepared.

 

No, the headache was not unusual. The cause, however? Now that was an entirely different kettle of fish.

 

Hermione snapped her diary closed with a glare, the loud slap of the pages as they met cutting the cause of her headache off mid-sentence. She took a brief moment of pleasure at the look of shock that crossed her guest’s hawkish features. It was petty, but Hermione found at that moment she didn’t much care.

 

“Thank you for the kind offer, Audrey,” she said through gritted teeth, her forced smile becoming more of a grimace with each passing second. “However, I think that the writers over at Politics Today can come up with some adequate questions for Percy’s interview on their own. That is, after all, why I pay their salary.”

 

Across the desk, Audrey Weasley, the infamous Director of Communications for the Ministry for Magic and wife of Percy Weasley, current Undersecretary to the Minister, smiled as she peered over the top of her frameless spectacles. It was not a nice smile.

 

But then again, Audrey Weasley was not a nice woman. 

 

“Frankly, Hermione,” she said, slamming a perfectly manicured hand on the desk, the gold bangles around her wrist jangling merrily, “I don’t give a shit what you pay your writers. You could pay them in beans for all I care. But I want to see those questions before any of my Ministers set foot in your studio.”

 

Hermione bristled with indignation.

 

“I’m not sure quite what level of reality you’re operating on if you think I’m going to let you dictate what the guests, because Percy is indeed a guest, are asked on my network. I operate a free press and will not be bullied by the likes of you.”

 

A sneer creased the blonde witch’s sharp features. Her blue eyes boring into Hermione’s, their depths icy, Audrey leant closer. When she spoke, her voice was deadly quiet. “You only got this job because I gave it to you. You would do well to remember that.” 

 

Hermione snorted mirthlessly. “If you’d wanted to keep me under your thumb, then perhaps ousting me from the Ministry was hardly the smartest of moves.”

 

“I didn’t push you. You jumped of your own free will, and that jump was the best fucking thing you ever did in your flat-line, balls up of a Ministerial career. At least this way you’ll be remembered for something other than a grade-A political scandal.”

 

Hermione opened her mouth to respond only to be interrupted by a loud knock on her office door. She sighed heavily, glancing up at the clock ticking merrily away on the far wall. It was time for her next appointment.

 

“Come in!” she shouted before turning back to the seething witch, a frosty smile gracing her lips. “Sorry Audrey, I’m afraid you have to leave now. I think it might be the bailiffs coming to take away all the fucks I have left to give.”

 

With ill grace, Audrey rose from her chair, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

 

“I want those documents, Hermione,” she said as she swept from the room in a swirl of expensive green fabric.

 

With a groan, Hermione buried her pounding head in her hands. If she had thought working under Audrey Weasley had been bad, it had nothing on working alongside her. It almost made Hermione miss the days she’d spent as Minister for Magical Education. At least then she usually had a heads up regarding the bollocking she was about to receive. She sighed heavily, wishing the floor would open up beneath her and swallow her whole.

 

Perhaps a little over dramatic, but it would certainly get rid of the headache. 

 

“Perhaps, Ms. Granger,” murmured a familiar voice from across the room. “It would be better if I came back later.”

 

“No need,” Hermione said as she peered up through her fingers at the slender form of Severus Snape. She slumped gracelessly in her chair, waving him into her office with a sigh. “I thought Umbridge was bad, but Audrey Weasley takes the bloody biscuit. God, she’s an irritating cow.”

 

Hermione was not a particularly religious woman, having left the somewhat ineffective clutches of the Church of England almost as soon as she had received her Hogwarts letter. However, she did keep a convenient sort of agnosticism. In a world where even the most innocuous of items had a tendency to explode on an alarmingly regular basis (both metaphorically and, on one rather spectacular occasion, literally), it was nice to retain the ability to blaspheme.

 

“Trouble?” asked Severus, sliding gracefully into Audrey’s vacated chair.

 

“With a capital fucking T.” Hermione sighed heavily, running her fingers through the tangle of dark curls that tumbled riotously over her shoulders. “But nothing I can’t handle. So, Severus, what can I do for you?”

 

Severus’ eyes widened innocently. The effect was entirely unconvincing.

 

“What makes you think I want something?” he said airily.

 

“It’s never a social call with you,” she said, pinning him with a half-hearted glare. “You always want something.”

 

It wasn’t so much that she objected to the seemingly one-sided nature of their friendship. If anything, Hermione lived in hope that at some point, and preferably in the not overly distant future, the ‘something’ Severus Snape wanted would be her. He was tall, dark and, well, if not handsome, certainly striking. And his arse was nothing to sniff at either. At least not from the ‘accidental’ feel she’d copped at last year’s Triwizard Tournament, having pushed him into a bush in a vain effort to avoid the drunken attentions of one Ludo Bagman.

 

No, the favours were fine. As was the man asking for them. What she really objected to was the deception. Hermione had been brought up to believe that lying to friends was tantamount to treason. Slytherin he may have been, but that was simply no excuse for bad manners. 

 

“Go on, tell me you’re here just for a social call,” she said, waving an accusing finger in his general direction. “Only, you can’t, can you?”

 

Severus at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Alright, I have a favour to ask.”

 

“I bloody knew it,” she said, a wry smile gracing her lips. “Never a ‘Hello, Hermione. How are you?’”

 

“Well…” Severus began, a long index finger tapping thoughtfully against his chin.

 

“Wait, wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “On second thoughts, let’s not do this here. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had an utterly atrocious day, and could do with a drink.” 

 

Hermione watched as the corner of his mouth twitched up into the closest thing to a smile she’d ever seen him give. It gave him a rakish air, his hawk-like features softening slightly. She felt her stomach flutter at the sight. 

 

“You know,” he said silkily, “it’s almost as if you read my mind.”

*

The pub was a pretentious little affair situated three streets down from Diagon Alley. It had the undeserved air of a country pub, all mock Tudor façade and mismatched furniture. Fake oak beams divided up the whitewashed ceiling, twinkling fairy lights twisting around the stained wood in a vain effort to disguise the shoddy joinery work. It was the kind of pub that sold Stella for the best part of a fiver, all the while proclaiming it artisanal because of the gold on the rim of the pint glass.

 

“So,” said Hermione, a fair way into her second gin special of the evening (though quite what was special about it Severus couldn’t fathom, save maybe the price), “you’re telling me that, not only do you personally know the mysterious Mr. T. A. Pig, a man more reclusive than bloody Banksy, but that he has asked you specifically to come to me to request a slot on Network IV for his show in exchange for exclusive interview rights for his next book?”

 

Well, when she put it that way it did sound somewhat fantastical.

 

Severus nodded, keeping his expression carefully blank. “That’s about the size of it, yes.”

 

Hermione drained her glass. “No.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘no’? His book is currently sat at the top of every best seller list in Wizarding Europe. I’m doing you a favour, practically handing him to you on a platter.”

 

“Severus, you don’t do favours for anyone, you do deals. And whilst I’ve no idea what Lucius has on you, whatever it is, he has you over a barrel else you wouldn’t be here.”

 

He blinked in surprise. Perhaps it was the beer, and truth be told he was on his fourth pint, but he had the distinct feeling she’d just mentioned Lucius.

 

“Pardon?” he said.

 

“Give it up. I know Tobias A. Pig is Lucius Malfoy,” said Hermione with a grin. “I’m not a complete moron. And I’m not giving him a prime time slot on my radio station.”

 

Severus glared at her. “You could have told me you knew before I made an idiot of myself.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

 

Ignoring the question, Severus took a sip of his drink before asking, “Why won’t you give him a slot?”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

 

“I haven’t entirely forgiven him for that little episode in Malfoy Manor,” she said, absentmindedly rubbing her arm. “It’s taken rather a lot of corrective surgery to remove his sister-in-law’s handiwork.”

 

“That was hardly Lucius’ fault.”

 

“And yet I find myself unwilling to let it go. Can’t imagine why.”

 

“Would it help if I told you he’s changed?”

 

“Ha! I’ll believe it when I see it.”

 

“I’ve changed. Is it really so hard to believe Lucius might have, too?”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Perhaps it was the gin talking, but she wasn’t entirely sure she could argue with that without undermining her own point completely. She frowned, scowling darkly at the remnants of her drink. 

 

“Fine, but I want something in return,” she said, fishing the slice of grapefruit from the bottom of her empty glass. “Two things, actually.”

 

Severus sighed. “Go on.”

 

“How much do you know about Rita Skeeter?”

 

“The journalist?”

 

“I think the term journalist is a little optimistic for the shit she peddles, but yes.”

 

“I vaguely remember her,” said Severus, frowning. “Didn’t she used to work for The Daily Prophet?”

 

“That’s the one. She works for Prophet FM, now,” said Hermione sullenly, taking a vicious bite out of the gin-soaked grapefruit slice she held between her fingers.

 

Prophet FM, formerly the Wizarding Wireless Network, was the BWBC’s broadcasting rival, and Network IV’s immediate competition. Bought out shortly after the war by Oracle Media Inc., The Daily Prophet’s parent company, what had once been a bastion of free speech and informative programming had fallen post-takeover to cheap gossip and factually incorrect reporting, the most egregious of which was to be found in one programme in particular: Rita’s Rumours. 

 

“Don’t tell me you listen to that drivel,” said Severus with a sneer.

 

“I don’t, but others do.”

 

Severus rolled his eyes. “And since when have you cared what others think?”

 

“I care because one day, I’m going to need their votes.”

 

Severus’ eyes widened. “If you go back to the Ministry, you’re more of an idiot than I thought you were.”

 

“I want to be Minister for Magic, Severus.”

 

“And I want to be George fucking Clooney, but that isn’t going to happen either.”

 

“Not with that attitude, it isn’t,” she quipped, trying and failing to lighten the tone.

 

“Unless you’ve forgotten,” Severus snapped, “you left the Ministry under rather a dark cloud.”

 

If by dark cloud you meant torrential downpour.

 

“There was never any evidence of wrongdoing on my part.”

 

“Yet the rumours persist…”

 

“Which is precisely why I need your help,” said Hermione, folding her arms. “Someone is paying Rita through Oracle to spread those nasty little lies on her show and I want to know who.”

 

“And what exactly is it that you want me to do?”

 

“I want you to have a word with Mundungus Fletcher for me.” Hermione grinned at Severus’ puzzled expression. “I’ve been tracing Oracle Media donations back to their original benefactors. Most are one-off endowments from legitimate sources but I found one set of semi-regular payments from a company that doesn’t exist. At least, not in any legitimate form.”

 

“And this led you to Mundungus?”

 

“No, this led me to another company, which in turn led to another, and another and another. Twelve in total, and all fake.”

 

“So how is Mundungus involved?”

 

“Ah, someone made a mistake. He was given a cheque, a Muggle one, and he cashed it. I found the record during my search.”

 

“So you want me to go and see if I can persuade Mundungus to give me the name of his employer.”

 

“Ten points to Slytherin,” said Hermione with a grin.

 

“And the other favour?”

 

“I want to have dinner with you,” she said, a slight flush creeping across her cheeks. “And I want Lucius to cook it.”

 

He thought about it. The promise of dinner with an attractive, clever witch whilst Lucius played House Elf? It was almost too good to be true. Despite his best efforts, he began to feel the faintest of smiles creep over his features.

 

“Deal.” 

 

“And Severus?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Tell Lucius you’ll pick me up on Wednesday at 7pm,” she said with a smile. “And wear something green. You look good in green.”

 

Severus grinned. Against all the odds, he was actually beginning to have fun.

*

Deep within the bowels of the Ministry, Audrey Weasley was sat at her desk, waiting.

 

The phone, a somewhat temperamental hybrid of the Muggle and the magical, gave two tinny rings. She picked up the receiver in one perfectly manicured hand, an emerald quill in the other. Silently, she jotted down the message on a square of crisp white parchment.

 

“If you require more rubber,” she said sharply down the line, “then buy it. Daddy left you in charge of the business. Ensuring you have adequate stock is your problem, not mine.”

 

A pause. 

 

“I don’t want to hear it, Martin.”

 

Another, longer pause.

 

“Good. We don’t want another little hiccup, do we? Now, I’ll pop round this evening once Percy’s in bed. Make sure everything’s ready for my arrival.”

 

She replaced the receiver with a click, a lazy smile curling at the edges of her lips.

*

It had taken Severus four days to locate Mundungus Fletcher, though he had the deep suspicion it would only have taken him two had Minerva not demanded he teach in the interim.

 

Patiently, he leant against the alley wall, concealed in shadow. It was almost midnight, the peal of premature bells from the church one street over sounding loudly. Casting a wandless heating charm to chase away the nip in the air, Severus watched three figures make their way down the road. The two in front, both built like proverbial brick outhouses, carried large cardboard boxes emblazoned with the words ‘Northcote’s of York’ in their meaty hands. The third, trailing a dozen or so steps behind, was smaller but most definitely in charge. 

 

“Oi! You be careful where you’re puttin’ those boxes,” shouted the little man, his hands groping in the tatty pockets of his coat as he spoke. “Any damage is coming out of your pay!”

 

Severus watched as the man stopped to tap out a crooked cigarette from the box he’d retrieved from the depths of his coat, setting it alight with a quick flick of his wand. The sparks briefly illuminated his face, eliminating any doubt as to his identity. Mundungus Fletcher. As the lumbering pair ahead rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight, Severus made his move. 

 

Quick as a flash, he darted from the shadows, pale fingers grasping the collar of Mundungus’ moth-eaten coat, pulling him none to gently out of the street. The man’s head slammed against the wall of the alley with a satisfying sort of crunch.

 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” said Severus silkily, pinning Mundungus to the brick with a quick flick of his wand.

 

Mundungus blinked, the lit cigarette falling from between his slack lips. His eyes widened comically as he focused on the face inches from his own. “Just a law abiding citizen just going about his business,” he said with a great deal more bravado than Severus was sure he felt.

 

“And what business might that be?” said Severus, the tip of his wand pressing lightly into the soft tissue just below Mundungus’ jaw.

 

“None of yours.”

 

“Wrong answer,” Severus replied with a particularly nasty grin. A crackle of light red sparks erupted from the end of his wand, dancing across Mundungus’ skin with a warning prickle. “Try again.”

 

“Alright, alright, keep yer hair on,” spluttered Mundungus. “I’m just moving shoes. All above board. I’ve even got papers, if you wants to see ‘em.”

 

Severus frowned.

 

“Shoes?” he said, puzzled.

 

“Aye, that’s right,” replied Mundungus with a nod, his gold teeth gleaming in the light that filtered into the alley from the street.

 

Severus blinked. “And these shoes,” he said. “who are you moving them for?”

 

“That’s the thing,” said Mundungus. “I don’t rightly know. Some posh bloke. Dresses like a Muggle. Never seen ‘is face. Squib, if I ‘ad to guess.”

 

“I believe you can do better than that, Mundungus.”

 

Severus pinned him with a hard stare. It was an excellent stare, one perfected over twenty years of teaching, and one of the things it was especially good at was making people talk even after they had decided silence was the more sensible option.

 

“I don’t know ‘im,” said Mundungus, finding himself speaking before he quite knew why. “Cross my heart.”

 

“Rather difficult, that, considering you don’t have one.”

 

“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t. All I know is where the boxes go. I pick ‘em up and deliver ‘em, no questions asked.” He straightened his scruffy tie, preening. “All part of the Fletcher service. 100% guaranteed confidentiality all included in the price.”

 

If there was one thing that could be said about Mundungus Fletcher, it was that every opportunity was a potential business opportunity. Even, it turned out, being pinned against a brick wall with a wand jammed in your neck. He had balls. You had to hand it to him - well, it was either that or he’d probably nick it. 

 

Severus rolled his eyes. “And these boxes, where do they come from?”

 

“I can’t tell you.”

 

“Can’t or won’t?”

 

“Can’t,” said Mundungus with a shrug. “It’s unplottable. I don’t even know myself. As I said, I just pick up the boxes from where they tells me to and deliver ‘em.”

 

“And where do you deliver them?” 

 

“I tell you that and I’m out of a job.” Severus pressed his wand harder into the side of Mundungus’ neck. “Okay, okay! Warehouse down by the quayside.”

 

Severus released the quivering man, stepping back and folding his arms. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

 

The look Mundungus shot him was one of incredulity. Severus smirked, inwardly preening. The war may have been long over, but he hadn’t lost his touch.

 

“You know, I could take you there,” said Mundungus as he bent to retrieve the cigarette that sat smouldering on the cobbles. “For a price, of course.”

 

“Or,” replied Severus, “and I think you ought to consider my counter offer very carefully, you’ll take me there for nothing and enjoy the continued use of your wand hand.”

 

Mundungus, as instructed, carefully considered his reply. It was a point of principle that he never agreed to anything without thinking about it. Sometimes, however, he thought very quickly. 

 

“Deal.”

 

“Excellent,” said Severus with a smile, brushing the dust from the front of his robes. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

 

“You wot?”

 

Severus rolled his eyes.

 

Criminals.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

Severus knocked on the door of Hermione Granger’s flat precisely fifteen minutes early, wine in one hand, wand in the other. His premature arrival, however, was not entirely welcomed.

 

“You’re early,” snapped a damp-looking Hermione as she invited him in.

 

Clad only in a towel, and a very tiny towel at that, Severus fought hard to keep his eyes affixed firmly on her face as he spoke.

 

“I thought you might like to discuss my findings regarding Mundungus Fletcher before we make the trip to the Manor,” he said, most definitely not watching the bead of water that was slowly making its way down the hollow of her throat. 

 

“A little warning would have been nice,” she said with a sniff, wringing the excess moisture from her curls. “Wait here. I’ll be a few minutes.”

 

And with that she sauntered off in the direction of what he could only assume was her bedroom, leaving Severus alone in the living room with a dry mouth and what had suddenly become a rather uncomfortably tight pair of trousers.

 

She reappeared five minutes later dressed, much to Severus’ disappointment, in a high-necked sheath dress of deep burgundy. Whilst it clung nicely to her ample curves, Severus rather thought, on the whole, he preferred the towel.

 

“So, what did you find out,” she said, securing her now dry curls with a golden barrette.

 

Severus folded his arms, leaning back against the arm of her chesterfield. “It turns out, Mundungus Fletcher is under the employ of one Mr. Northcote.”

 

“Northcote?” she said, tapping a finger against her freshly rouged lips. “Now where do I know that name?”

 

Severus shrugged. He too felt a certain sense of familiarity at the name, but despite his best efforts, he simply couldn’t place it.

 

“No idea, but I did find out exactly what Mundungus was up to,” he said and pulled the shoebox from his pocket, reversing the shrinking charm with a deft flick of his wand. He proffered the box to Hermione, watching as she cautiously lifted the lid.

 

“Shoes?” she said, puzzled.

 

“Not just any shoes,” said Severus, plucking a brown leather brogue from the box. “Muggle shoes.”

 

“Why would Mundungus be delivering Muggle shoes?” Hermione peered at the shoe, squinting carefully at the intricate stitching that wound its way across the toe. “And what on earth has that got to do with Prophet FM?”

 

Severus shook his head. “No idea.”

 

“Did you find out where they’re coming from?”

 

“Unfortunately not. Wherever it is, it’s unplottable at the very least. Under Fidelius at the worst.”

 

“So we’re stuck?” she said with a pout. 

 

“Not exactly,” said Severus, a sly look playing about his eyes.

 

“Why Severus, have you done something clever?”

 

In response, he merely smiled.

*

Mr Elliot Finchley, Senior Floor Manager at Thompsons Department Store (West London Branch), surveyed the newest shipment. He then removed his glasses and wiped his forehead.

 

“I think there has been some sort of mistake,” he said to the store clerk beside him.

 

“I checked, Sir,” replied the clerk, his hands nervously twisting his tie. “I checked every single box from last night’s shipment. They’re all empty.”

 

“Get me the distributor on the phone,” said Mr Finchley with a sniff. “And I want these sent back.”

 

“Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.”

 

As the pair left the stock room, neither noticed the faint orange glow of a tracking charm that emanated from the underside of the packing crate.

*

The first hour of their dinner had gone well. The head Elf, Tinker, had whisked them out of their cloaks and gloves almost as soon as the front door had opened, proceeding to offer them a glass of champagne as he showed them to the dining room. At the table sat Lucius, dressed in his smartest of robes and wearing his politest of half-smiles.

 

A bevy of courteous small talk had seen them through both the entrees and the soup. Inquiries after the welfare of Draco, Astoria and baby Scorpius had taken up most of the fish course; Narcissa, Harry and Ron the main. It had been surprisingly pleasant, all things considered, even if Lucius had spent most of the dinner flirting shamelessly with his pretty young guest, and ignoring his ugly older one.

 

The second hour, however, was when everything went to pot. 

 

“So what made you choose to write a cookery book?” inquired Hermione between bites of the rather delectable roast duckling Lucius had added to the pomegranate salad. “I would have hardly thought becoming a chef would appeal to a man such as yourself.”

 

“I prefer the term culinarian to chef,” said Lucius, smoothing a slender hand down the front of his immaculate grey robes. He gave Hermione a winning smile that made her blush to the roots of her hair, and Severus green with envy.

 

Strutting, pretentious and immaculately groomed, Lucius reminded Severus of one of his beloved peacocks. If, indeed, you could find a peacock that was silver and had a somewhat unnatural predatory instinct. A tiger would have perhaps been a more astute basis for comparison, but Severus felt that it gave the man entirely too much credit.

 

“Of course you prefer it,” said Severus with snort, viciously spearing a slice of romaine lettuce with his fork. “You keep peacocks. Pompousness is in your blood.”

 

Lucius, ignoring Severus, continued, “But as to the rationale behind making such a change in my career, having given the apothecary to Draco, I’m afraid there is little in the way of work forthcoming for a man disgraced as I am. A fact which I am sure you know only too well, Ms. Granger.”

 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

 

“I was led to believe that you left the Ministry under duress,” said Lucius, seemingly unaware of the gaping chasm that had opened up beneath him. “Rumours of bribery and corruption. And the incident with Bagman at the 2015 Triwizard Tournament. Quite the political scandal.”

 

The atmosphere in the room turned icy. A clever man would have backpedalled the moment he saw her face drop. And quickly at that. But Lucius, as it turned out, was not nearly as clever as his relentless self-propaganda suggested.

 

Severus took a sip of wine, watching the drama unfold with a lazy eye, quietly confident that whatever happened, he would no doubt come out on top, if only by comparison.

 

“All lies. I didn’t touch a hair on that man’s head,” spat Hermione, thrusting her fork in Lucius’ direction, speared carrot slice waggling precariously as she did so. “Or anything else of his, for that matter.” She sniffed haughtily. “That’s all they are. Rumours.”

 

“Oh, obviously,” said Lucius, making it quite clear he thought nothing of the sort. 

 

“I did nothing,” she said indignantly. “I was merely a convenient scapegoat.”

 

“And can you prove it?”

 

Hermione deflated. “No.”

 

“Then whether the rumours are true or not is hardly the point.” Lucius gave her a sly look. “But I would hardly worry about this affecting your chances in a leadership bid.”

 

Hermione blinked, trying and failing in her attempt to hide the spluttering as she inhaled her drink in surprise.

 

“And who says I want to be Minister for Magic?” she said carefully.

 

Severus downed the last of his wine in his glass before helping himself to the rest of the bottle. He sat back in his chair, pinning Hermione with a sardonic glare.

 

“Please, anyone with half a brain knows you’re after the top job,” he said. “And as loathe as I am to admit it, Lucius has considerably more than half a brain.”

 

“Oh, a good three quarters, I’d say,” Lucius chimed in. “Possibly seven eighths if I’ve had a particularly restful night.”

 

Hermione cast a dirty look in Severus’ direction. “You’re not helping.”

 

“I wasn’t aware I was trying to.”

 

“Either way, you want to be Minister for Magic,” said Lucius, holding up a hand to silence the pair.

 

“Eventually.”

 

“And if you can put a stop to the rumour mill,” continued Lucius, pretending he hadn’t heard, “I suspect, given time enough for the public to forget, you’ll succeed in your bid. But that’s all rather beside the point. I believe what you really came here to discuss was my slot on Network IV.”

 

“What makes you think I’m going to give you what you want?” said Hermione with a tilt of her head.

 

“There is not a single witch or wizard in the Ministry without skeletons lurking in their proverbial closets.” Lucius gave her a hard look. “I wouldn’t for a second harbour the notion that yours are even close to the worst. They are, however, the freshest.”

 

“I believe your metaphor is beginning to break down, Lucius,” said Severus with a wave of his hand.

 

“Fortunately for you,” said Lucius, pinning Severus with an icy glare before turning back to Hermione. “You have somewhat of a trump card.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Me,” he said simply. “Give me a prime time slot on Network IV for my show, and in return, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that you will be the next Minister for Magic.”

 

“And if I don’t take the deal?”

 

“Then, despite my reservations regarding the journalistic integrity of the outfit, I’ll take my offer to Prophet FM.”

 

Hermione gave him a shrewd look. Severus could practically see the thoughts ticking away behind her face. He kept his expression carefully neutral. Getting into bed with Lucius Malfoy, whether literally or metaphorically, was a risky business. Highly agreeable, yes, but risky.

 

“Deal,” she said, with a nod.

 

“Excellent,” said Lucius with a predatory smile. “I’m sure it will be a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Granger.”

 

“We’ll see, won’t we,” replied Hermione, brushing her hair away from her neck with a graceful sweep of her hand.

 

Severus zeroed in on the expanse of long, slender skin the move exposed, suddenly unable to think of anything else other than what it would be like to kiss it. Or, perhaps bite it, if she was into that sort of thing. He wasn’t picky. 

 

However, it appeared Severus was not the only one entertaining lewd thoughts regarding their dinner guest. Lucius was practically drooling over the girl. And much to his eternal dismay, the feeling appeared to be mutual. Something had to be done. Severus Snape was a selfish man; he had zero intention of coming second. Literally or metaphorically. And he didn’t like to share.

 

Scowling, he coughed loudly, feeling more than a little pleased as the pair jumped in surprise, the moment broken.

 

“What about our deal, Lucius,” said Severus with a sniff.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten. And I think I may have found exactly what you were looking for.” Lucius fished an expensive-looking leather bound notebook from the pocket of his robes and read, “The services of two dozen House Elves were billed to one Mr. Martin Northcote just over four months ago. According to Astoria, the Elves are going through some sort of minor population crash at the moment. Something to do with breeding pairs,” he said with a moue of distaste. “The mysterious Mr. Northcote has another four dozen on back order ready for spring. What’s the betting he’s your man?”

 

Severus frowned. It was an odd coincidence. And if there was one thing Severus didn’t believe in, it was coincidences. Well, that and Father Christmas. 

 

“Northcote?” asked Hermione. “As in Northcote’s of York, Northcote?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Hermione dug into her handbag, retrieving from its depths the shrunken box Severus had gifted to her earlier that evening. With a flick of her wand, the box and its contents returned to normal size. Her eyes fixed on Lucius, removed the lid, passing him the shoe box.

 

“Good grief,” said Lucius, his eyes wide. “Where on earth did you get these?”

 

“They’re just shoes,” said Hermione. “And Muggle ones at that.”

 

“No. They’re very much not ‘just shoes’,” said Lucius, lifting the brogues from their box almost reverently. “These are Elf-made.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“See the stitching?” he said, leaning over to point at the tiny silver threads that held ran around the edge of the sole. “See the distinctive looping structure of the stitches? The slight shimmer of the cotton? All classic hallmarks of Elf-made garments.”

 

Hermione turned to Severus. “Why are Elves making Muggle shoes?” she asked, but he wasn’t listening.

 

He was thinking.

 

“There are a great many Squibs in the Northcote line,” said Lucius, realising no answer would be forthcoming from Severus. “I suspect this is simply their way of getting by.”

 

“That name. Northcote,” said Hermione, frowning as she took a sip of wine. “Why is it so familiar?”

 

“I see no reason why it shouldn’t be,” Lucius replied. “The Northcotes are one of the premier Wizarding families.” He turned to Severus. “You’ve almost certainly taught a few. There was one not too far ahead of Draco, your house. Agatha? Agnes? Or maybe it was Audrey?”

 

Severus blinked.

 

Suddenly, everything was starting to make a horrible sort of sense.

 

“Severus?” said Hermione, placing a hand on his arm. “What are you thinking?”

 

“I know where the missing Elves are,” said Severus softly.

 

“Missing Elves?” said Hermione.

 

“And I know who’s paying Rita and exactly how they’re doing it.”

 

“Rita?” said Lucius. “As in Rita Skeeter?”

 

Severus waved away Lucius’ question with an impatient air. “Have either of you heard of the story of the Elves and the Shoemaker?”

 

Lucius frowned, Hermione nodded.

 

“Well, this time,” continued Severus, “the shoemaker, instead of using the profits derived from the Elven labour to help the poor and needy, is using them to destroy your career. And is participating in a spot of House Elf rustling to do so.”

 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open as everything finally clicked into place. “That’s why they’re selling the shoes to Muggles,” she said, her hand hitting her forehead with a loud slap. “The Wizarding world and the Muggle one might as well be on different continents for all they overlap.”

 

“And with a Squib in the family who knows the ropes… That just leaves one question,” said Severus, draining his wine glass. “What exactly did you do to piss off Audrey Weasley?”

 

“Oh that’s easy,” replied Hermione with a smirk. “I’ll give you a clue. What do you know about Percy Weasley?”

 

A slow smile began to spread across Severus’ face. “He’s next in line for Minister for Magic.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” said Severus. “Evil, but brilliant.” 

 

The sweet tinkle of glass filled the air as Lucius rapped his spoon against the water jug. He gave the pair a hard look. “I think you ought to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

*

_**To:** Weasley, Audrey. Director of Communications. Second Floor._

_**From:** Cuffe, Barnabas. Chief Editor, Oracle Media._

_**Date:** November 23, 2016_

_._

_**RE:** Prophet Politics Party, Prophet FM. _

_Please be advised that due to unforeseen irregularities within the Northcote account, the pre-arranged interview segment on Prophet Politics Party regarding Percy Weasley’s renewed Ministerial bid has been postponed._

_Do not hesitate to contact us should your circumstances change._

 

 

Audrey scowled at the memo before obliterating it with a flick of her wand. She picked up the telephone, viciously jabbing the numbers into the keypad.

 

“Martin,” she snapped down the line. “I want to see you. Now.”

*

The plan was surprisingly simple. Find a willing House Elf, allow it to be captured, and, with the targeted application of a bit of magical jiggery-pokery and the help of Severus’ tracking spell, tag along for the ride, thus ending up right where he wanted to be: the epicentre of Northcote operations. From there he merely had to liberate the captured Elves via portkey and Bingo! Life debt repaid. There was almost nothing to it.

 

It was so simple, in fact, that calling it a plan was perhaps elevating it to a higher status than it deserved.

 

It was, therefore, also inevitably destined to go wrong.

*

“Right, Tansy,” said Hermione, kneeling down so that she was at the Elf’s eye level. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

 

Severus, Hermione and the Elf were in the Ravenclaw common room. Some expert sleuthing from Severus led them to the conclusion that if Tansy was going to disappear anywhere, she was most likely to do so here. Anecdotal evidence from the other Elves regarding the last whereabouts of the missing, combined with the knowledge that Audrey Weasley, nee Northcote, was behind the Elf-nappings had told them to start searching the quarters of Ravenclaw House first.

 

There was a Northcote in Ravenclaw. A first year named Sarah. And what better way to plant Portkeys, ones specifically keyed to Elves, than through an unsuspecting relative? 

 

“Yes, Miss,” squeaked the Elf, brandishing her feather duster like a weapon. “I is on the hunt for things that has no rights being here.”

 

“Correct,” replied Hermione with a nod. Carefully, she readjusted the silken thread tied around the Elf’s tiny wrist, affixing the other end to the tip of Severus’ wand with a softly murmured spell. “And what must you do when you find these objects, Tansy?”

 

“I must be waitings for you or the Professor to be ready before I is touching them, Miss.” 

 

“Good.” Hermione rose to her feet, brushing the dust from her robes as she turned to face Severus. “I’ve aligned your wand with the Elf’s inherent magical field. Combined with the last set of co-ordinates your tracking spell sent out before it was taken to the unplottable region, you should have a pretty good shot at a successful side along with Tansy.”

 

Severus nodded, taking his wand from her outstretched fingers. “And the Aurors?”

 

Their involvement had been Lucius’ idea. Better to ensure the raid was legal and above board now than to hit a snag when it came to trial.

 

Hermione passed Severus what appeared to be a Galleon. “I’ve altered the charm to start broadcasting out your co-ordinates. Once you’re in, Harry will pick them up and send in his team. Provided it’s merely unplottable as opposed to under Fidelius, then Harry’s confident he’ll be there in under two minutes. Lucius has my spare Galleon, should you need back up.”

 

“The Northcotes?”

 

Hermione’s lips curled into a decidedly evil grin. “I’ve stationed two of my best and pushiest press packs outside of Audrey’s office. She won’t be going anywhere for the next two hours at the very least, which should buy you more than enough time.”

 

“And the brother?”

 

“Lucius assures me the man’s a Squib.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You’ll not have any trouble from him.”

 

“Right then,” said Severus, taking a deep breath. “I think it’s time we begin.”

 

“Wait,” said Hermione, grabbing Severus’ hand. “Before you go, I wanted to give you this.” She pressed a small, cream envelope into his palm. “Consider it a thank you for all your help,” she said, a shy smile playing about her lips.

 

Severus nodded, sliding the envelope into the upper pocket of his robes for safekeeping. Before he could think the better of it, he leant in, pressing a soft kiss to hollow of her cheek.

 

“Wish me luck,” he murmured against her ear.

 

“Good luck.” He felt her lips briefly graze his own as she pulled back. So briefly, in fact, that he wasn’t quite sure whether he imagined it. “Remember, I’m here to pull you out if you need me.”

*

For Mr. Martin Northcote, 6.15pm arrived with a bang.

 

Quite literally.

 

The ungodly noise was then followed by a blindingly bright flash of light and a wave of hot air that almost knocked him clean off his chair. And, when the stars in his vision cleared, he found himself staring down at the business end of a wand. A wand attached to a very angry looking and mildly singed wizard.

 

“Hello Martin,” said the wizard. “My name is Severus Snape and this,” he gestured to a small Elf attached to him with what appeared to be string, “is Tansy.”

 

The Elf waved, wide smile on her leathery face. Martin waved back. He wasn’t quite sure why. Shock, perhaps?

 

Before he could further analyse his actions, the wizard, Severus, spoke again. 

 

“I believe Tansy has found something that belongs to you.”

 

The Elf held up her left wrist, a familiar gold band encasing her tiny arm.

 

“I-I-I, er,” stammered Martin, pushing his horn-rimmed specticles back up the bridge of his nose.

 

His eyes widened as Severus advanced towards him. “Where are the others?”

 

Martin began to lift a shaking hand towards the door opposite when it swung open and the slender form of his elder sister came striding through.

 

“Martin, I think I found the problem, it’s lot number eightee-“ She stopped dead. “Shit.”

 

“Quite,” said Severus.

 

For a second everything was still. Silent.

 

Then there was the pop of Apparition and all hell broke loose.

*

Severus returned to Hogwarts, House Elves in tow just as the clock struck seven. He was bruised and somewhat singed, but remained triumphant regardless.

 

The plan, despite the initial setback, had come good in the end. The charm that rendered the warehouse unplottable, it turned out, had shattered rather spectacularly upon Severus’ entry, leaving the equivalent of a dirty great big hole in its protective shield. A great big hole that the Aurors, alerted by the Galleon in his pocket, took full advantage of.

 

The fight had been over in minutes. After that, it had been hardly more than a clean up operation. Audrey and Martin were on their way to Azkaban to await trial for conspiracy to Elf-nap; Hermione’s reputation was well on its way to being saved; the House Elves had been freed (well, as close to freed as they were likely to want); and, perhaps most importantly, the life debt had been fulfilled. 

 

All in all, things had turned out rather perfectly. Well, almost. There still one thing left to do.

 

Severus removed the small, cream envelope Hermione had given him from the top pocket of his robes. Slowly, he opened it, tipping its contents into his outstretched hand.

 

Nestled within his palm was a golden house key. Attached to the bow with a piece of dark red ribbon was a small tag. It read:

_1902 Diagon Alley._

_9pm._

_Bring chocolate._

He turned it over.

_And Lucius_

Well, Severus thought with a smirk. Well, well, well.

 

Whistling tunelessly, he tucked the key into his trouser pocket. It was 7.00pm. That gave him exactly two hours to clean up, swing by the kitchens and perhaps, if he was feeling particularly magnanimous, call on Lucius. 

 

Maybe.

*

_Extract from Classy Cooking with Tobias (First broadcast, Dec. 2016. BWBC Network IV):_

_**Tobias:** I am a firm believer that there is little more truly satisfying on a cold winter afternoon than a steaming bowl of minestrone soup. Many turn their noses up to such a simple dish, but for me, its simplicity is part of its charm._

_For this recipe, you will need:_

_\- Two cloves of garlic, minced_

_\- One red onion, sliced as thinly as you dare._

_\- Two rashers of bacon, unsmoked, finely sliced._

_\- One pint of vegetable stock._

_\- Two of each of the following – carrots, courgettes, medium sized potatoes, and celery – all diced._

_\- Two tins of tomatoes which you must then chop. Do not buy pre-chopped, else you lose the - pleasure of preparing them yourself._

_\- A handful of fresh greens, seasonal preferred._

_\- A pinch or two of both oregano and basil, fresh if you can manage it._

_\- And a generous handful of pasta._

_All you must do is simply cook the bacon in hot oil until golden brown. Then, add the onion, garlic, carrots, courgette and celery and leave to cook for approximately fifteen minutes. Once the time is up, add the remaining ingredients, save the pasta and the greens, and leave to simmer gently for 30 minutes to an hour. Ten minutes before serving, add the pasta and greens to the pan, cooking through until al dente._

_Season and serve with crusty bread and real butter (never margarine)._


End file.
